At Loose Ends

by WvonB

Two lonely people. A chance meeting. What will happen?

8. Chapter 8

A/N: This chapter follows immediately follows upon the previous, very short one. You might want to read that one again.

Not much external stuff. Just two people getting to know each other better.

Hopefully it'll bring some brightness and joy into your day.

Don't own Chuck et al.

—

AT LOOSE ENDS: Chapter Eight

"Chuck—"

"Sarah—"

"You first."

"No, no, you first."

I wish he'd been a little less polite. Or that I'd been a little more insistent. I would've liked some time, even a little. To gather my thoughts.

Because I don't know what I'm going to say. Or how.

The CIA, right from the word go, had drilled into me the absolute need for meticulous preparation before every mission, but doubly so for those missions that required me to get close to my mark.

Every bit of intel was to be pored over, even the seemingly irrelevant scraps of information.

Where did he go to school? Does he like sports? If so, which teams? What did he eat for breakfast the last time he was observed? Does he take his coffee black or with cream? What kind of shoes had he worn the last time he'd been caught on camera?

And so on. You never knew what could be of value at a particular moment.

Before I'd come up here, I'd taken in everything we had on Jules Levesque.

Everything. Literally.

The head of records had been visibly annoyed when I'd placed the list of files I wanted in front of him. That was, until he'd looked up from his desk and realized who was asking (I think I may have scowled at him, unconsciously. Then he'd quickly complied with my request.)

Graham, Bryce and the others always believed I was eminently adaptable, supremely flexible.

Look, I'm not saying that I can't think fast on my feet—and have often done so—but the truth is the primary reason I succeeded where others failed is that I was always prepared.

Eminently. Supremely. For every possible contingency. My responses, both physical and verbal, carefully thought out in advance.

So, despite whatever impression I may have given my peers, my relationship with actual spontaneity has always been spotty at best, pretty much non-existent at worst.

Until today.

I've been flying by the seat of my pants ever since I met Chuck. Saying things, doing things without my normal forethought for the consequences.

It's…liberating.

And a little terrifying.

How do I tell him how I feel? How much can I say without giving away things I shouldn't? And, perhaps, most frightening, how much can I say without scaring him off?

I don't know the answers, but I do know this.

This is my chance, perhaps the only real one I'll ever have, to break the hard-set pattern of my upbringing, of my training.

If I hold back, all the gains, all the insights of this day, will have been wasted.

He's waiting for me to speak. I have to say something. Let him in. As much as I can.

I want to.

I need to.

I will.

I just have to find the words.

…

Her hand still in mine, she asks, "Chuck, would it be okay to skip the totem poles? I'd just like to walk, if that's alright with you."

I smile. "Of course."

She's quiet. It's easy to tell she's thinking. Hard.

I wait. A minute or two passes. A few couples pass us going in the opposite direction, but other than that, we're pretty much alone.

"Chuck…"

Pause.

"Yes?"

"Chuck, thank you. Thank you...for liking me."

I detect an emphasis on me, but I don't have time to think about what that might mean, for her next statement catches me flatfooted.

"No one's ever told me that before."

I stop, turn to her, blink a couple of times, stunned.

"You're kidding, right?"

She looks at me, shakes her head slowly.

"I find that very hard to believe."

"Believe it."

My astonishment makes me sputter. "But…but how can anyone not like you, Sarah? You're funny, you're kind, you're smart, you're thoughtful."

I pause. Should I stop there?

No, I won't.

Courage.

"Not to mention, extremely beautiful."

She blushes, her head down.

How can she not be used to praise of that sort? Men must regularly line up to shower her with admiration.

She squeezes my hand. Brings her eyes to mine. I see the swirling emotions in their azure depth.

She takes another deep breath. "Chuck, my job requires me to regularly…interact…with people who aren't like you. People who are unkind, dishonest, closed and callous. People who are self-serving, concerned only with their own agenda. Often unconstrained by any sort of conscience in their dealings with others. Sometimes cruel."

I try to absorb that even as I warm to her backhanded compliment.

She adds, her voice flat, "People who constantly pretend to be someone other than who they are."

I've had the misfortune to have known a few people like that. Bryce. Jill. A few others. But I can't fathom what kind of occupation would constantly call for that sort of interaction.

"I'm sorry, Sarah. I don't understand. What kind of job would ask that of you?"

She hesitates. "Chuck, I can't tell you the details, but I work for the Federal Government."

"What?" I wrack my brain, blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, "In law enforcement or something?"

It's a couple of seconds before she replies, "Something like that. Yes."

I shake my head, trying to imagine spending most of my time in the company of those whom she's described.

I can't.

…

Quietly, he asks, "Sarah, why do you stay?"

It's a slap in the face. A wake-up call.

Why do I stay?

My obligation to Graham was paid off years ago. My father is now free—where, I have no idea—able to pursue whatever course he chooses.

Am I working toward my pension? Twenty years and then out?

That's a laugh. Doing what I do, as good as I am, what are the chances I'd manage to stay alive until then?

Slim to none.

And even if I somehow did, I'd be a burnout. An empty shell.

So, why?

I can't come up with a single legitimate reason.

All I know is that I've been in motion—constantly, almost unswervingly—ever since that fateful day Graham made me the offer I couldn't refuse.

The only time I'd strayed, even a little, from the path set before me was a couple of years ago. Graham had ordered me to work under an agent named Kieran Ryker.

I'd met the man at Langley once before and had taken an instant, instinctual dislike to him. Something in his eyes sent a chill through me.

I don't chill easily.

So I said no.

Graham was angered by my refusal, coldly furious, but, in the end, it seemed he still considered me to be a useful tool. So, instead, he'd sent Alexandra Forrest, an agent I had a passing acquaintance with.

Apparently, the mission was an unmitigated disaster. A bloodbath in Budapest.

There were whispered rumors that Forrest and Ryker had a falling out, had wound up taking each other out (I never saw or heard of either of them again). And that a baby was somehow involved. A baby that wound up in the foster care version of witness protection.

But my balk was, in truth, only a minor deviation, as Graham had sent me on a different mission immediately after venting his displeasure. A dirty, ugly one.

His way of keeping me under his thumb.

And there I've stayed since. My revulsion growing, but still obediently toeing the line.

Until today.

What's that law of physics? An object in motion tends to stay in motion unless acted upon by an outside force?

Sure, I'd inwardly bemoaned the emptiness of my life as I'd stood there with Hyak, but I know that it wouldn't have been enough. Eventually, I would've straightened myself out, continued to do what was expected of me.

What else was there?

It's taken a more powerful outside force to make me realize that I will not—cannot—go back to being what I was.

Chuck.

I'd already resigned the moment I said yes to him, walked with him from the shadows into the light.

I just hadn't realized it until this moment.

Why, indeed?

I shake my head. "I don't know, Chuck. Momentum, maybe. For far too long."

…

I'm a hypocrite.

Here I am, daring to question her about why she hasn't moved on while I've been no better. Worse, in truth. At least she's doing something important.

Me? All I've done is fix computers. Tweak people's phones. Help them with their e-mails. Etcetera. Etcetera.

Drifting along, barely moving, letting the current carry me where it will.

Like she said. Momentum. And very little of that.

She raises her chin, looks up at me, steely determination in her bearing, her voice. "But I'm done with it now."

Her courage astounds me. That she has the strength to turn her back on her career sets me back on my heels.

Something solidifies in me. I straighten my spine.

I can be brave too. Like her. I don't have to stay where I am, either.

Bogged down in the Buy More swamp.

Mired in mediocrity.

So what if I don't have that degree I'd so coveted?

I'm more than that piece of paper, better than I've let the world convince me that I am.

If someone like Sarah Walker can like me, I must be worth more than I've come to accept.

Right?

Right.

It suddenly hits me that, Ellie, Devon and Morgan, each in their own way, while trying to be supportive, have instead enabled me in my uninspired, lackluster existence.

Not that I can blame them. In the end, I bear the ultimate responsibility for who I am, for whom I'm not.

It's taken the example of this amazing woman holding my hand to galvanize me.

I won't sit back anymore.

She needs to know how much that means to me.

But before I can speak, she goes on.

…

I can't leave him with the impression that it's only the people around me that have been poor examples of genuine human beings.

"Chuck, you were surprised when I mentioned that no one has told me that they like me."

He nods. "Yes."

"There's a reason for that."

I pause.

He waits. Patiently.

"To do my job, I was often required to put on different…personas. To become someone other than myself. So I could attract men—the targets of our investigations—to me."

"Why would you have to do that?"

"To get close to them. To get them to confide in me. To discover their vulnerabilities.

"So appropriate actions could be taken."

I give him a second or two to absorb that, wondering how I'll answer if he asks what "appropriate" often meant.

I'm not ready for that.

His brow furrows. "Like working undercover?"

"Yes. And I'm very good at it. Getting men to believe that I cared for them."

I pause, shamed, hoping that didn't come across as boastful.

There's sudden anger in his eyes.

Maybe he's wondering if all of this, what's happening between us, is just some sort of game for me?

I hold my breath.

His voice is harsh, his tone bitter. "My god, Sarah, that's sickening. How could the government ask you to do things like that? It's like they were pimping you out!"

He's angry for me, not at me.

I can breathe again.

I rush out my words, desperate for his understanding. Maybe his forgiveness.

"But you should know, Chuck, that while I was undercover, I was never…under the covers."

It takes a few seconds for him to connect the dots, but, when he does, I can easily see he's relieved.

His anger recedes, a bit. "Thank god for that."

I hurry on, trying not to lose my courage. "I'm telling you this because you need to know that a lot of those men said that they liked me. Some told me that they loved me."

His eyes widen, but he doesn't interrupt me.

"But it was all a sham. Nothing they said meant anything. Not to me, and not to them, not really. Even if they may have thought it did."

"I don't understand."

"Because the person they spoke to didn't exist. She—I—was a construct of the moment. Here today and gone tomorrow.

"A lie. So many lies. I was lost. Buried under so many identities that I couldn't remember who I was."

I stop to wait for his reaction, anxiously wondering if the truth about my deceit-riddled past will be too much.

He surprises me again. Instead of dwelling on all the aliases, the falseness of my existence, he focuses on a couple of words.

"You said was and couldn't, Sarah. Like in the past. Did you mean that or was it just a slip of the tongue?"

I shake my head. "No, I meant it.

"Today's been a revaluation, a revelation."

I stop, taken by a sudden thought. "Chuck, did you wonder why I was crying back there?"

…

My cheeks flush. "Yes, I did, but it was none of my business. I shouldn't have intruded."

"It's okay, you've already apologized."

"Still—"

"No, it's okay, really."

She takes a deep breath. "I'd realized that my life was no different than Hyak's. I, too, was trapped, swimming in circles, slavishly obedient.

"Knowing the cycle would only likely be broken by my death."

I open my mouth to protest, but she doesn't give me the chance.

"And, yes, I know how morbidly melodramatic that sounds. But, standing there, everything just hit me at once. An aborted mission. Being up here alone. Ordered to stay, but given nothing to do. Nothing to keep my mind occupied. Nothing to keep the bad thoughts away."

She squeezes my hand.

"But then you came along, and within a few minutes, you somehow managed to chase away my blues. You helped me to see that life isn't all doom and gloom. That there's still joy to be had.

"And that I can change my path. To a straight line. No more circles."

...

He shakes his head. "Sarah, I didn't do that much."

"No, Chuck, you did. You showed me that there's still kindness and decency and gentleness and sincerity in the world.

"Having someone good and honest—like you—say that they like me means…I'm not sure I have the words."

I blow out an exasperated breath. "Like I can aspire to be good and honest, too. That maybe I can learn how to interact with normal people again."

He shakes his head. "No, you're wrong, Sarah.

I'm taken aback by his vehemence. "Excuse me?"

"I said you're wrong. You don't need to aspire. You already have those qualities in abundance. And you interact with 'normal' people quite well, thank you."

I want to believe him, but, even as his words warm my heart, I'm perversely driven to question him. "You know this…how?"

"Well, I could say, quite truthfully, that it's based on the time you've spent with me, but, since I'm rather biased, I'll use another example.

"I came across you and Sam earlier, at the jellyfish display. And even though I couldn't hear the words, I could see you were fantastic with her. Smiling. Kind. Warm. Gentle."

I hear the surprise in my voice. "You saw me with her?"

"Yeah. It was lovely to watch. You clearly had no trouble connecting with her. And judging by her eagerness to reconnect when we ran into her upstairs, she obviously likes you."

He takes a deep breath. "Look, I know this may sound incredibly presumptuous, but I think that everything else, all that stuff you told me about, all of it was just a façade, another persona you had to put on to get the job done."

It's almost as if he's read my mind, was privy to my so recent internal debate.

"This you, right here, right now, this is the real Sarah."

I was right. He does know this me.

His voice is firm, brooking no debate. "That's what I believe, and nothing you can say will convince me otherwise."

"Thank you, Chuck. That may be the kindest thing anyone's ever said to me."

I go up on my tiptoes, lean in, and quickly kiss him on the cheek. It's only after that I realize what I've done.

He blushes, furiously, a startled looked on his face. He raises his hand, wonderingly, to the cheek I just kissed.

And he's not the only one who's affected by my impetuousness. I manage to resist the impulse to bring my fingers to my tingling lips. But just barely.

We shyly smile at each other, both suddenly wordless, unsure of what to do next. With unspoken accord, we start walking again.

After a minute or two of silence, my curiosity gets the better of me. "Chuck, why didn't you come over and introduce yourself?"

He seems a little distracted. Perhaps still thinking of the kiss.

"Sorry, what?"

"Why didn't you come over and say hi?"

"Oh, that." He lets out a rueful chuckle. "Sarah, guys like me don't just walk up to women like you and say hi."

"Why not?"

"Courage. More specifically, a lack thereof."

I'm puzzled. "Why would you need courage?"

"Sarah, have you seen yourself? You're the fantasy woman."

I frown. "Excuse me?"

He grins. "Before you give me the look, I don't mean that kind of fantasy.

"I mean the fantasy of an average guy like me actually having a chance with a woman like yourself."

"That's nonsense. We're hitting it off really well."

"I agree, we are. Really well. But this, what we have going here, this isn't normal."

I raise an eyebrow.

He's embarrassed. "Let me explain. When I first saw you, I looked around, waited for your boyfriend or husband to show up."

"Why?"

"Because life's taught me that's the way it normally is. Always some better guy waiting in the wings."

"And when this hypothetical better guy didn't show up?"

"I told myself you couldn't be interested in me in any case. So I deliberately turned and went in the opposite direction from the one you took."

He shrugs. "As I said, a lack of courage."

"So, you're saying that if it hadn't been for serendipity, we never would've met."

"Yep. I kinda did everything I could to avoid running into you again. But it happened anyway."

He's suddenly serious. "And I'm very glad it did."

"So am I, Chuck."

I pause to make sure I have his attention. "And for what it's worth, there's no better guy waiting to show up. I think you're pretty great yourself."

It takes a second or two, but then his surprise gives way to that smile. The slow-growing, all-encompassing one that I've quickly come to like. A lot.

His voice is low, almost a whisper. "Thank you, Sarah." He squeezes my hand.

He gives himself a shake. "But I'm not sure the rest of the world would agree."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you seen the looks of the last few men who've walked past us?"

I hadn't noticed, lost in thought as I was. "What kind of look?"

"The 'what the hell is she doing holding hands with a guy like him' look."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. It always happens. Not surprisingly, right after they check you out.

"That kinda thing would've bothered me before, made me doubt myself."

Like him, I pick up on the past tense.

"Would've bothered you?"

…

I grin, slightly embarrassed. "You caught that?"

"Yeah, I did. So you're saying that it doesn't bother you now?"

"Yep. Not much, anyway."

"Why not?"

"Because of you."

"Chuck, I haven't done—"

I cut her off gently.

"Yes, Sarah, you have.

"You're genuinely interested in all the odd stuff I keep spouting off. You laugh at all my stupid jokes. You keep rescuing me when I put my foot in it. Or when I don't watch where I'm going."

I lift our joined hands, glance at them. She does too. "You're holding my hand. You told me that you like me."

I pause.

"And you kissed me, Sarah. On the cheek, I know, and I'm not saying that means anything more than it was. A simple thank you.

"But put it all together…"

I struggle to find the words.

...

He sounds mildly frustrated. "You know how on ER, when the patient's heart isn't beating properly and they shock them with the paddles?"

"A defibrillator."

I'm not familiar with what I assume is a television show. However, I'd had to use a portable one on a suspected double agent in one of our Moscow safe houses.

She didn't make it.

"Yes. That's it." He nods.

"I hope this doesn't sound stupid, but you, Sarah Walker, are this…this human defibrillator. You've got my heart pumping again. Blood flowing. Confidence flowing. It's been years—far too many—since I felt that way."

He pauses, looks into my eyes, quietly adds, "Sarah, I feel alive again, and it's all because of you."

I gape at him, the victim of a momentary disconnect.

He can't be speaking about me, can he?

I'm not a giver. I'm a taker.

Or am I?

In the aftermath of that mission in Moscow, I'd convinced myself that the only reason I'd tried to keep the woman alive was to determine if she had betrayed any of our assets. That her death didn't mean anything. Simply collateral damage.

I told Chuck that I want to be honest. Like him. For those words to mean anything, I'll have to be honest, first of all, with myself.

I'd denied myself the truth of how I'd felt as I'd watched the life drain from her eyes. Locked it away along with all the other dragons I couldn't bring myself to face.

The bloody senseless waste of it all had hit me hard. Regardless of what she'd done or hadn't done, there was no reason she had to die.

So I tried, desperate to keep that flicker going.

Shooting her hadn't been part of the plan, but Bryce, who'd been oddly antsy the whole mission, had overreacted when the woman had made a sudden move toward her coat pocket.

For a tissue, as we discovered later. I think she was going to sneeze.

I'd cursed Bryce even as I dug out the safe-house's medical kit, to no avail. After, I'd resisted the temptation—barely—to fling the defibrillator at Bryce's head as I'd stormed from the room.

I didn't know it then, but that mission was the official end of my waning relationship with Bryce. He disappeared shortly afterward, my disapprobation perhaps still ringing in his ears.

And though I didn't consciously realize it until just a few minutes ago, that same mission marked the beginning of the end of my time with the Company. The experience ignited my smoldering disillusionment with Graham and the blood-soaked path he'd put me on.

A smolder that burst into flames today. My bridges burning more furiously with each step I take with Chuck.

Yes, if matters had gone as planned, I would've done everything in my power to bring Levesque in.

But not the way I've done before. Far too often.

No more taking.

Time to start giving.

Chuck says I already have.

Perhaps he was just carried away by a momentary enthusiasm?

I have to know.

I drag my mind back to the now, smile tremulously. I look at his chest, afraid to bring my eyes to his.

My voice sounds small. Uncertain.

"Do you really believe that?"

"Believe what, Sarah?"

"That you feel alive again...because of me."

Please say yes.

Please.

…

My words must have somehow touched a nerve. For a few moments, she's gone, lost somewhere in her mind.

And then she's back, a wobbly, little smile on her face.

Quietly. Her eyes down. "Do you really believe that?"

"Believe what, Sarah?"

"That you feel alive again...because of me."

She's asking for reassurance. From me, Chuck Bartowski, of all people.

She gnaws at her lower lip, seemingly unsure whether she'll receive it.

Sarah Walker has insecurities. Like me.

She's not perfect.

It makes me like her even more, assuming that's even possible.

Greatly daring, my heart beating wildly, I use my free hand to gently cup her chin and tilt her head back so I can see her eyes. And she can see mine.

I lower my hand, softly place it on her shoulder.

I reply, slowly, quietly, firmly. "Yes, Sarah, I do. I've never been surer of anything in my life."

Her eyes search mine for a few seconds. Then she nods, slowly.

I smirk, just a little. "In fact, Sarah, you've given me so much confidence that I'll no longer have any trouble approaching other beautiful women."

Her eyes widen in surprise, but before she can object, I lean in and cheekily add, "The irony is that I can't think of one good reason why I'd want to."

It takes a second or two.

"Oh!"

She blushes.

…

I feel the heat in my cheeks.

How does he do that? Keep reducing me to a blushing schoolgirl again and again?

His gaze? His words? That oh, so gentle touch?

That genuineness I'd sensed right from that first moment?

Yes. All of it.

I can do that. I can be genuine too.

Chuck's shown me the way.

I just have to believe I can follow his lead.

But then something he said nags at me. It takes me a second or two to recall what it was.

…

"Chuck, you said that it'd been years. About the whole confidence thing. Too many."

"Yes, I did."

"May I ask why?"

I don't know what she'll think of me after I tell her, but she's been as honest as she can. How can I not do the same?

We approach a bench.

"Would you mind if we sit, Sarah? This might take a while."

She's a little surprised by that, but we sit quickly, our hands still joined.

"Sarah, when I told you I was up here on company business, I didn't tell you who I work for."

I rush out my words, embarrassment tinging my cheeks. "I'm not high up in some Fortune 500 company or something. All I do is work for the Buy More in Burbank. I'm the supervisor of what's called the Nerd Herd. The technical support and installation division of the store."

I flinch internally, perhaps expecting her disapproval. It doesn't come

She just nods, attentively, her expression neutral. "Okay."

"I've been there for six years. It's not much of a job. Stupefying much of the time. A dead-end."

"Let's talk about that in a moment, but first of all, I'd like to ask you a few questions. Okay?"

I'm not sure where she's going, but I nod. "Alright."

"Is it honest work?"

I do pride myself on my honesty with customers.

"Yes."

"Have you ever had to hurt anyone?"

There's been many a time that I've felt like kicking Jeff and Lester's butts but, of course, I've never actually done so.

"No."

"Do you help people?"

"Well, yes. But it's just with their computers and phones and e-mail. Nothing important like you do."

She shakes her head. "No, you're undervaluing what you do."

I'm puzzled. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Chuck, did you ever stop to think about how important seemingly little stuff like that can be? For instance, a single mom who might not be able to pay her rent or keep food on the table because the computer she uses to run her home business stops working? Or a doting grandfather who can't talk to his grandchildren because his phone doesn't work? Or someone unemployed who's desperately waiting for an e-mail reply to his job application?"

Huh! Her perspective catches me off guard. Caught up in the day-to-day drudgery, I hadn't given much thought to what might be going on behind the scenes, so to speak.

"I never thought of it that way."

She nods. "And based on your interaction with me and Sam, it's safe to say that you're probably really good at helping people, aren't you?"

She's right.

"And you do get some degree of satisfaction from doing so."

She's right again. Especially when the person is grateful for what I've done for them.

I'm starting to feel pretty good about myself.

She leans in. "But you could do much more, be much more, couldn't you?"

Just like that, I'm brought back to earth.

"Why would you say that?"

"Chuck, you're funny, kind, super-smart, thoughtful, empathetic."

She grins a little after paraphrasing my earlier words to her.

"And you're quite handsome."

She thinks I'm handsome? I'd like to think about that for moment, but she goes on, serious again.

"So, how did someone like you, with all those qualities, wind up at a place like the Buy More? And more to the point, why are you still there?"

It's one thing to admit your deficiencies to yourself. It's quite another to have another person, especially someone you like, someone you're trying to impress, bring them to your attention.

I swallow heavily. There are only a handful of people who know the full story of my fall from grace at Stanford. And fewer still who are privy to the full extent of the graceless aftermath.

Devon. Morgan. Ellie.

Am I ready to have Sarah join that elite club?

And is it fair to her? To burden her with my tale of woe?

I'm momentarily tempted to brush off her question with some casual answer, minimize the whole depressing story.

But then I look into her eyes, feel her encouragingly squeeze my hand as she waits for my reply.

She wants to know. And she deserves to know.

If that sours her on me, it's just something I'll have to live with. I console myself with the thought that nothing real could happen between us without her knowing at some point anyway.

I begin, taking a deep mental breath.

"Sarah, I was a scholarship student at Stanford."

She raises an eyebrow, impressed, I think, but she doesn't say anything, just nods for me to go on.

"I became friends with a guy who got me into his fraternity. The two of us had a lot in common. We spent a lot of our time together. He eventually became my best friend."

Ellie had told me, again and again, not to mention past relationships with a girl I was dating, but I won't hide this from Sarah.

"He introduced me to a girl whom I came to like. We hit it off really well. By the middle of my senior year, I was planning to propose."

She quietly asks, "What happened, Chuck?

I hesitate, gather my courage. There's no going back from what comes next.

"Everything was going well until my last semester. Then the roof fell in. The test answers to one of my courses were found in my room.

"I was accused of cheating and summarily expelled. Twelve credits short of graduation.

"Later that day, I found my best friend and my girlfriend in bed together. My bed."

I take in a shaky breath. "I fled with my tail between my legs. Back to Burbank to live with my sister and her boyfriend, now husband. I found work at the Buy More.

"And I've been there ever since."

I'm not sure what kind of reaction I'd expected from her, but anger was certainly not one of them.

She growls. "The bastards!"

I'm not sure who she's angrier with. The Stanford ethics committee or Bryce and Jill.

Seeing the fierceness in her expression, all I can say is that I'm very glad that it's not me.

She spits out the words, "It was your so-called friend who did it, wasn't it?"

"How do you know it wasn't me?"

She gives me the flat look to end all flat looks. "Seriously?"

There's this warmth radiating in my chest. Not for a moment did she doubt my innocence.

"Yes, you're right. It could've only been him, but it was never proven."

She growls again. "So, he sets you up. You lose Stanford, your best friend and your fiancé to-be all in one day."

Hearing her say it brings back a whole truckload of the original pain. I barely manage to nod my head. My shoulders slump.

…

I need to put away my rage.

It's clear that my response has reawakened his painful emotions.

Good going, Sarah.

I slide over on the bench, our hips touching. Leaning in closer, I lower my voice, take the angry edge off of it. "I'm so sorry, Chuck. That must have been a terrible time in your life. You, of all people, didn't deserve to be treated like that."

He nods, a small smile pushing away his frown. "Thanks."

"But you can take consolation in one thing, at least."

"What's that?"

"Most people who went through something like that would be bitter, resentful, distrustful for a long time, if not the rest of their lives.

"But not you. You still care for people, still look for the best in others."

He sounds doubtful. "I do?"

"Yes. Do you know how I know that's true?"

"I'm not sure."

"Because when I told you about my life, you could've focused on the things I've done, the deceptions, the unspoken acts I've had to carry out to do my job. Instead, you actively looked for and saw the good in me. The person I'd like to be. A different woman than the one I've been."

I pause to make sure I have his attention. "To be able to do that is a gift, Chuck. A gift very few people possess."

I hear the bitterness creep into my voice. "I certainly don't."

…

I will not let that go unchallenged.

"No, Sarah, you do."

"I do?" There's hope in her voice.

"Yes. Think about it. You could've dismissed me as just another guy trying to hit on you. You could've said no when I asked you to go on a walk. But it seems you saw something worth your while in me."

I pause. "And then there's the whole Stanford thing.

"You've only known me for a few hours and yet you assumed—correctly—that I was innocent. My girlfriend knew me for years and yet she automatically assumed I was guilty."

And just like that, it hits me.

Jill never doubted I was guilty. And she never gave me even a single chance to tell her my side of the story

Why the hell did I spend all those years pining away for her?

What a stupid, pointless waste. Any vestigial feelings I had for our time together vanish as if they never were. Years too late, I admit, but better that than never at all.

Time to focus on the now. Maybe the future.

"Sarah, nothing comes from nothing. I think you've always had it, but being around the people you described gave you almost no chance to exercise it. So it sorta…atrophied. Sat there unused.

"Until today."

…

He's right.

Nothing good ever comes from nothing.

Somehow, an almost forgotten, hidden part of me has stood its ground, clung to the belief that, even in the face of what I've seen and what I've done, there's still good in the world.

Adamantly refusing to let herself be overwhelmed by my world-weary cynicism, she's risen to the surface today.

And all it took was running into exactly the right person at exactly the right time in exactly the right place.

Nothing to it, right?

I look at Chuck with renewed appreciation.

He's a precious gift. One I didn't even know I needed, and certainly didn't think I deserved.

"Thank you, Chuck. For believing in me."

He grins as he waves it off. "Pfft! No big thing, Sarah. You make it easy."

I think we both know that's not true, but it's pure Chuck Bartowski. Always doing his best to make the other person feel better about themselves.

I grin back. "How about this, Chuck? To thank you for being so nice, I track down the people who did a number on you and kick their asses?"

He laughs. "I have no doubt you could do it, Sarah. I'm sure Bryce would never know what hit him."

No.

It can't be.

"Bryce?"

I don't know why I even bother to ask. I already know what his answer is going to be.

"Bryce Larkin. My former best friend. I heard that he's an accountant somewhere back east."

And just when everything was going so well.

"You know him?"

I can only nod.

He shakes his head in wonder. "Wow, that's an amazing coincidence. You and I, both knowing Bryce."

My reply is terse, flat. "Yes."

Chuck looks at me closely. He can tell I'm not happy.

He offers a tentative grin. "What'd he do? Screw up your tax return or something?"

I take a deep breath.

Here we go.

"No, Chuck, it's worse than that. Much worse."

TBC

—

A/N: You all knew that was coming at some point, didn't you? Next time we'll see how they'll handle this revelation.

One more thing.

In response to a guest reviewer (who shall remain nameless) who left two scathingly vicious, profanity laced reviews of one my previous stories, I say this, in all sincerity: Please don't read any more of my work. (Hopefully, you've already stopped, so won't be reading this.)

I write to entertain people, not to frustrate or anger them as I so obviously did with you.

I suspect there many other readers who feel as you do. That my characters are poorly drawn, that they do implausible things, and that their speech is unrealistic.

Perhaps, I'm naive, but I like to believe people can fall for each other very quickly. One writer I respect very much put it this way in one of his stories.

People fall in love in three seconds. The rest is just denial.

Perhaps I'm also naive in my belief that people can use words that are things of beauty and elegance. Words they can make you think. Give one pause. Perhaps, even inspire. That is possible for my characters to string together a intelligent sentence without sounding like someone from a bygone era.

(I'll leave it up to my readers as to whether I accomplish any of these goals. I do know there are a number of other writers who do so on a regular basis, Zettel being at the top of my list.)

Am I naive to think that speech needn't be laden with expletives to be powerful? That there are an abundance of adjectives in the English language aside from four-letter ones?

Maybe I am.

So be it. You can't please all the people.

I'll continue to write my stories the way I want.

If you disagree, you're perfectly free to move on.

WvonB